


Breakfast and a Bump in the Road

by Luthien



Series: Luthien Does Writer's Month 2019 [12]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Australia, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Australia, F/M, Holiday Fling, Humor, I do have an ultimate destination in mind, I promise, holiday romance, humor and whump, it will make sense, just go with it, probably, yeah i don't even know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 16:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20261041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: Jaime and Brienne visit a very different sort of cafe. This one has a little twist in the tail.Fill for Writer's Month 2019 Day 11: whump. (Finally!)





	Breakfast and a Bump in the Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slipsthrufingers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipsthrufingers/gifts).

> Thanks to slipsthrufingers and Telanu for their audiencing and comments while I was writing this. Some of the details were suggestions from them, but I can't remember which ones at this point. Let's just say that this story would not be quite the story it is without their input, and, particularly, slipsthrufingers' recent experience of the Byron Bay coffee scene. So this story is dedicated to her. :)

If Jaime were to use one word to describe Byron Bay's cafe culture, that word would have to be 'pretentious'. It had always been a bit that way inclined, but… He stared down at the menu in front of him. Beetroot latte? Really? 

Brienne was frowning at the menu. "The sign out the front said they had tea, but they only have green and oolong on the menu. Not proper tea."

"Do you want to try somewhere else?" Jaime suggested.

Brienne shook her head. "They're probably all pretty similar, though I can't imagine that many of the others have decor this… memorable." She looked around them.

The cafe was hung with long bolts of coloured silk, to give the impression of the interior of an 'exotic' tent, but other than that, the decor could be summed up in one word: dragons. Kafe Khaleesi was covered in them, or at least the walls were. Red and black dragons, green and silver dragons, cream and gold dragons, yellow dragons, blue dragons, and one enormous black dragon that covered the whole back wall.

And the dragon motif didn't stop there. The menu promised "dragon egg" lattes: the Drogon (beetroot), the Rhaegal (matcha) and the Viserion (turmeric), each with a picture beside it of a dragon in the appropriate colours, while a long black was for some reason known as a Balerion, and a macchiato a "half Balerion". There was also the Meraxes (mocha), the Caraxes (cappuccino) and the Tyraxes (flat white)—Jaime could sense them starting to run a little dry on naming inspiration here—and the two tea options that Brienne had complained about. These were a green tea called Longjing, which translated as Dragon Well, and oolong or wu long, which was, apparently, known as Black Dragon tea.

Jaime turned the menu over with a slight sense of dread, and was relieved to find that the food options were just the sorts of things you'd expect to find in a place like this, right down to the ubiquitous smashed avo on toast, with no attempt to be creative with the names.

He looked up from perusing the menu and his eyes met Brienne's, which were brimming with laughter. Jaime bit down on a smile. It wouldn't do to laugh, because he'd probably not be able to stop, and then he might get them kicked out of here by the oh-so-serious-looking barista before they ever had a chance to find out if a beetroot latte—sorry, a _Drogon_—tasted as ghastly as it sounded. Well, he reminded himself, he'd wanted to make this week memorable for Brienne, and he'd certainly done pretty well so far, what with the great sex, and the dragons, and the promise of more great sex, if he did say so himself.

Under the table, he slipped one foot out of its shoe, and found her instep with his toes. He managed an almost bland expression as he stroked her foot, and then up along her shin.

Brienne spluttered, the tips of her ears going pink. She'd be an absolutely terrible poker player. The world's worst, and he-

"Are you ready to order?" It was the young barista. Up close, he looked younger, and his expression even more worried and mournful, than Jaime had first thought. He was bearded and dressed all in black, and had a small man-bun of equally black hair at the back of his head with a pen stuck through it. The name tag he wore said: "Jon". As Jaime watched, the barista—Jon—took the pen out of his hair and held it hovering above his order pad as he looked expectantly at Brienne.

"I'll have the mushroom omelette and brioche toast, please, and would it be possible to get a cup of oolong tea with perhaps a dash of skim milk added to it?" Brienne asked.

Jon laboriously wrote this down and then shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, you can't."

Brienne frowned. "Why not?"

Jon looked at her as if she were an idiot. "Because you can't put milk in oolong," he explained in a manner that he no doubt considered to be one of hard-pressed patience.

"Why can't I, if I want to?" Brienne asked. 

The way she said it, all firm and determined and not-willing-to-take-shit-from-anyone-not-least-this-too-serious-little-hipster made Jaime's jeans feel suddenly too tight. He really shouldn't have any stamina left after last night and this morning, not to mention yesterday afternoon, and yet… Brienne really was something special.

"Well, I suppose you could, if you really wanted to," Jon said, making it clear that he felt he was addressing a Philistine, "but you still _can't_ because we don't have any skim milk."

Brienne blinked. "_Why_ don't you have any skim milk?" she asked. Jaime thought it was an eminently reasonable question.

"Because we don't use it here. We believe that you need the full creaminess of whole milk to properly provide the total coffee experience," Jon explained earnestly.

Jaime stared at him, not quite believing that that sentence had just come out of the boy's mouth. Not even Tyrion could have spouted such a piece of arrant nonsense—but then Tyrion would never try to make anyone drink a beetroot latte, or give it a "dragon" name, either.

"But I want to put the skim milk in tea, not coffee," Brienne pointed out. "And I noticed on the menu that you offer almond milk and soy as options."

"That's different," Jon said.

"Why?" Brienne asked.

"It just is," Jon said, shrugging helplessly.

Brienne took a deep breath, but when she spoke next her voice was remarkably level. "All right, then, do you offer _sugar_ with your coffees?" Her voice broke just a tiny bit on the last word, but that could have been because Jaime chose that moment to stroke his foot slowly along her shin. She glanced his way across the table, giving him a look so stern that it was very nearly a glare. Jaime's jeans grew tighter. He was glad that he'd be sitting at this table for the next little while.

"I can bring you sugar, no problem. Refined or raw?" Jon said, looking relieved that Brienne had at last asked him a question that he could give a positive answer to.

"All right, then, I'd like a flat white, with refined sugar," Brienne said.

"One Tyraxes with sugar," Jon muttered as he added it to the order. "And you, sir?" he asked, turning to Jaime.

Jaime looked him up and down with an appraising eye. "Melbourne?" he asked.

"I'm sorry?" Jon looked even more puzzled than was natural for him. 

"Do you come from Melbourne?" Jaime asked.

Jon's eyebrows rose. "How did you know?"

"Just a guess," Jaime said with a nonchalant shrug.

Jon smiled slightly. "Good guess. Now what can I get for you?"

"Let me see…" Jaime said, picking up the menu and taking his time looking it over, as if he hadn't already decided exactly what he was going to order. "I'd like the full breakfast, with fried eggs," he said at last. "And I'll have a—what do you call the beetroot lattes again? A Drogon? Yes, I'll have one of those, _and_ a half Balerion."

"Can I suggest trying the Drogon with almond milk?" Jon said.

"I thought you needed whole milk for the 'total coffee experience'?" Jaime asked.

Under the table, Brienne kicked him in the shins. Not too hard, but hard enough.

Jon looked a bit uncomfortable. "Well, technically, the dragon egg lattes aren't coffees, since they don't have coffee in them."

"You shock me," Jaime said, and sat back in his chair with a very particular little smile curving the corners of his lips.

"So is that a Drogon with almond milk?" Jon asked, and Jaime had to give it to him that he didn't give up easily. He would probably find a way to come back from the dead just to make the perfect cup of coffee—or what he believed to be the perfect cup of coffee, anyway—if he had to.

"Why not?" he said.

"All right, then, one full breakfast, one Drogon with almond milk, one half Balerion," Jon said as he noted down the almond milk.

"Thank you," Brienne said.

Jon smiled at her, a bit of a strained smile, and professional rather than real, but still, it was a smile. He didn't smile at Jaime before he returned to the counter to make the coffees—plus the Drogon—and pass the rest of the order through to the kitchen.

"You're appalling," Brienne said in a low voice, belied somewhat by the way her lips kept twitching and her chin occasionally quivered. "Playing games with that poor boy."

"I seem to remember someone else who had the temerity to not only ask for a dash of milk in a cup of _oolong_, like an uncultured peasant, but also to request skim," he pointed out, not trying very hard to keep a straight face.

"I like what I like," Brienne said with a little sniff, sitting up straighter in her chair. Jaime found even that enchanting, God help him. "How did you know he was from Melbourne?" she added curiously.

"Have you noticed how many other people around here are wearing all black, or any black at all?" Jaime asked. "_No one_. The climate here is subtropical. Even in the Winter, the days are as warm or warmer than what you often get in London in Summer. Black absorbs heat, so it's not a good fit with this sort of climate."

Brienne nodded.

"But Melbourne," Jaime continued, shaking his head as if in sorrow. "You can get four seasons in one day there, when it's not simply cold, grey and drizzling. I think they wear all black as a sort of badge of honour for putting up with the gloom. It's more like a uniform for anyone working as a barista in one of Melbourne's trendy coffee places."

A small crease appeared between Brienne's pale brows. "Why do I get the impression that you're perhaps just a _tiny_ bit biased against Melbourne?" she asked.

Jaime grinned. "I'm from Sydney." He glanced over at the counter, where Jon was busy frothing milk. "So yeah, when I see a morose-looking 24-year-old dressed all in black, working as a barista and talking serious nonsense about 'the total coffee experience' I just think of one place: Melbourne."

Brienne smiled a little, at that, but then she said in a quiet voice, "I'm twenty-four."

So there was an answer to one of the things he'd been wondering about her. "You like tea, though," he said. "With milk." Her hand was lying on the table. He reached out and laid his own hand over it, and said, letting his smile turn into something more serious, "I'm thirty-seven."

She didn't respond, at least not in words. He was starting to learn that about her, that thoughtful, speaking quietness. She drew her hand out from beneath his, but only so she could clasp his in hers. Her hand was large, almost as large as Jaime's, her fingers long, her grip strong and firm, and her eyes were as blue as the ocean waves outside as she looked across at him and held his gaze. Beneath the table, he felt the touch of her bare foot stroking along the arch of his. He swallowed hard, and wished that they'd stayed in his suite and ordered room service for breakfast. And maybe lunch, too.

He hoped that the zip of his jeans would survive this breakfast.

He made himself slowly disengage his hand and smile, though he thought it might look like a parody of his usual expression, and asked, "So now I know you're twenty-four, Brienne Tarth, but I don't know much else about you apart from the fact that you love a good cup of tea and that don't like the London winters much. Well, that, and that you have freckles on your-"

"Jaime!" She sat up very straight, her eyes widening in not-very-serious-outrage. Beneath the table, her foot left his. It was probably for the best, given where they were, but Jaime discovered that he already missed it.

"Nose," he finished. "You have freckles on your nose. And a few other places," he couldn't resist adding, just to see her eyes flash again, "but there's no need to mention those right now, if you'd rather not."

"I'd definitely rather not," Brienne said in a very firm voice. 

"So tell me something else about yourself instead," he said. "I don't even know what you do for a living."

"I'm an archaeologist," she said. "I've always loved history, and there's a lot of it lying about not too far below the surface in the UK, if you go looking in the right places."

Jaime nodded. It suited her. Brienne wasn't made to spend her days in an office. He could just picture her, digging holes in fields or village greens or whatever, all purposeful and strong, jumping down into ditches in jeans and boots, then carefully, so carefully, brushing some tiny fragment of an artefact free from the dirt that it had been covered in for centuries.

He swallowed, forgetting what he might have been about to say.

"Drogon?" asked a female voice in low, beautifully modulated tones.

Jaime glanced up, although not very far up, and found himself looking at one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen in his life—and he'd seen a few, including his own twin sister. She was short, but with elegant little curves in all the right places, as the phrase went. Her hair was long, a sort of icy ash blonde, done up in a series of intricate braids, and her eyes were almost as purple as Brienne's dress. Her brows were dark, which indicated that the hair colour had come out of a bottle—unless it was a wig, which also seemed entirely possible—and her delicate features were regular. Her smooth, perfect skin was unblemished by any moles or scars, or even as much as a single freckle. She wore a long, sleeveless dress made of a filmy, light blue-grey material, the fabric draped in tiers along the skirt, and clearly designed to give its wearer an ethereal, other-worldly sort of look.

"Beetroot latte?" the waitress tried.

"Oh, that's mine," Jaime said, "and the macchiato, too."

The woman nodded, and carefully placed the flat white in front of Brienne then set the other two drinks down before Jaime. She hurried off again. Jaime watched as the sad eyes of the barista followed their waitress across the room.

He turned back to Brienne. "I think our Melbourne boy has a crush," he said, chuckling.

Brienne did not join in his amusement. She was frowning, and her eyes looked… wrong. Bleak, and worse, _resigned_.

"What's the matter?" he asked, concerned. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Fine," she said, though he'd never heard a single word from her that had made her sound less fine, not even when she'd first appeared in Tyrion's coffee shop after being dumped on the side of the road by that shining example of manhood, Hunt.

"Tell me," he urged, reaching out his hand across the table to her.

She pulled her hand back, as if his might bite or something.

"What's the matter?" he asked, getting seriously worried now. Something had changed, in not much more than an instant, and he didn't know what.

Something in her seemed to deflate then, because she sagged in her chair, and looked infinitely sad.

"Tell me something, Jaime," she said. "Answer truthfully, or as truthfully as you can."

"Of course I will," he said, and it was true. Half the rest of the world would be lucky to get a straight answer out of him on anything, at least on the first attempt, but this was Brienne.

"If… if you could choose between her and me, if, say, she'd- Oh, I don't know."

"Neither do I," Jaime said, utterly mystified. "Her who? Who is 'her'?"

Brienne sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm being silly. I just… Look at me, Jaime. Really look at me." She swept her arms wide, as if to proclaim: "Behold!"

Jaime beheld. Even clothed, she was stunningly original. Her arms were so… long, just like all the rest of her, all fit with toned muscles, but soft, smooth skin. And that was just her body. The woman inside was just as remarkable. She was a one-off. She was… Brienne, and there was no one else like her. 

"I'm looking," he said, with a slow smile, and added, lowering his voice so that only she could hear, "Right before our coffees arrived, I was looking at you and thinking how much I regretted leaving our room, how much I wanted to take you back to bed again, even after yesterday and last night and this morning." 

He glanced down at the table, trying to consciously drop the mask that he put on without even thinking about it every time he went out in public—any time he was with anyone at all. Anyone but Brienne. He looked up again, and whatever she saw on his face must have communicated something of what he felt, because _her_ expression changed from one of unhappiness to… Jaime wasn't sure quite what the look on her face meant, but it seemed to be better than the one it had replaced.

He took a chance, knowing that he might be burning his bridges, but this seemed like a turning point in the road they'd been sharing since yesterday, one Jaime hadn't even seen coming, though he probably should have. "Tell me you feel it, too," he said urgently, leaning forward across the table. "Please tell me."

Brienne let out a deep breath, and closed her eyes. "And then our coffees arrived, and all you saw was her."

"What?" Jaime asked. That was not a response he had been expecting, never mind the one he had been hoping for.

"The waitress."

Oh. 

"Yes, I looked at her," Jaime said, glad to finally know what was going on, but not sure how to respond. She'd seen him looking at the waitress. That was all. If Brienne had been anyone else, any other woman, he would have thought her unreasonable. But Brienne wasn't any other woman, and hadn't he thought just this morning that the world must have been cruel to her about her looks, and made her self-conscious and unsure? Hadn't he been determined to show her just how much he appreciated everything about her, including how she looked? 

Well, here was his chance. "I looked at her just as I would look at a beautiful painting, or, I don't know, a majestic view out across a valley or something," he said. "Her looks are eye-catching, and part of that is because she's consciously presented herself that way. That doesn't mean I'm interested in looking at her for more than a moment, though, or thinking about her for longer than two seconds after we've left here."

He stopped speaking, and then he waited. Now it was Brienne's turn.

She still wasn't smiling, but her frown looked more thoughtful and less sad than it had before. She sighed, yet again, and then she said, so quietly that Jaime had to strain to hear her, "Yes." She cleared her throat and tried again. "Yes, I feel it, too."

Jaime let out a long, shuddering breath. "Thank God," he said.

Brienne reached out her hand, and Jaime took it, snatched it up and kissed it, like he had in the car yesterday, when he'd asked her to have lunch with him. It was obvious that Brienne remembered that, too, because she smiled at him—at last!—and he smiled back, and they were still sitting there, grinning at each other like a couple of idiots when their food arrived.

Their meals were delivered by yet another server, this one an older man, tall and still fit-looking with muscled forearms, his skin weathered and a bit cracked, like old leather, as if he'd spent years out in the hot sun. He was thinning a little on top, but an improbable brown and grey ponytail hung down his back.

"The omelette?" he asked, looking at Brienne. 

She freed her hand from both of Jaime's, and moved her coffee out of the way so that the waiter could set down her plate.

The man set down the other plate in front of Jaime. "I hope you enjoy," he said. "It's a pleasure to actually cook some protein for someone this morning."

"Not too many full breakfasts being ordered these days?" Jaime asked the cook, since that was clearly who he was.

"No." For a moment, the man looked as mournful as the barista. "My morning's been all salads and vegan… things," he said, his lip curling with distaste. "I've even had to make a couple of kale kombuchas when the barista was extra busy," he added darkly. And then his face transformed. There was really no other word to describe it. "Khaleesi!" he called, and Jaime saw that their coffee waitress had just walked in through a door near the black dragon on the back wall. 

The cook hurried after the waitress—who, it appeared, might just be the owner—and Jaime and Brienne were left alone with their breakfast.

"I wonder what 'Khaleesi' means," Jaime mused. "'Sultan'? Or 'sultaness', maybe? She certainly looks like she's got the makings of a harem happening here." He glanced over at Brienne, wondering how she would take this. The waitress—or Khaleesi or whatever or whoever she was—might still be a slightly sore point.

But Brienne was grinning. "I think you'd have to get in line, if you really were at all interested," she said.

"I'm not interested in getting in line," he said. "Not in _her_ line, anyway." He fluttered his eyelashes at her, and Brienne let out a sound that might have been, sort of, almost, a giggle. "But first I need to eat this breakfast. I've got to keep up my strength. I'm not as young as I used to be, even though there's this truly _inspiring_ 24-year-old I've met recently, who's done really amazing things for my stamina."

Brienne was no longer looking at him. She was staring at the table, her face and neck blushing so brightly that it was obvious even through the foundation she'd applied and the already pink skin underneath. She looked almost the same colour as the beetroot latte, which Jaime still had yet to try. She'd probably appreciate not being the focus of his attention for a moment.

He picked up the 'Drogon' gingerly and inspected it. The barista had created the image of a dragon on the foam on top. It didn't look too bad, even if it wasn't a patch on Shae's coffee art. But what did it taste like? That was the question. Well, there was no time like the present, as his aunt was fond of saying. Jaime lifted the cup to his lips and took a cautious sip.

"What does it taste like?" Brienne asked. Her colour had calmed down, and she had regained her composure enough that she was prepared to look him in the eyes again, which was good.

"Quite sweet," Jaime said, after he'd swallowed that first sip with some effort, "and earthy and very… pink." He set the cup back down and exchanged it for the macchiato. "Ah, that's better," he said relishing the first sip. The coffee was strong and bitter, but without any suggestion of having been burnt. Whatever views Jon the barista might hold on tea and milk and beetroot powder, he certainly knew what to do with _coffee_.

Brienne sipped her flat white. "It's good," she said in some surprise, and then set about trying her omelette.

They didn't speak much for a while. Jaime really was hungry, and it seemed that Brienne was, too. The full breakfast had everything he could want: two fried eggs and bacon, a couple of pork sausages, fried tomato, fried mushrooms, and toast. It was a heart attack on a plate, but Jaime felt it was justified today. He hadn't been kidding about needing to keep his strength up.

By the time he was done with breakfast, Jaime's plate was clear and the small coffee cup at his elbow was empty. Only the beetroot latte sat alone and forlorn on the table, barely touched.

Brienne had finished her omelette and was nearly at the end of her coffee. Once she was done they shared a look, a question and answer exchanged with no need for words, and got up from the table.

Yet another employee was operating the register. This time, it was a young woman with masses of dark, curly hair. Jaime was a little relieved not to have to deal with Khaleesi or either of her swains. The young woman handed Jaime the bill. 

"Next time," he said, as Brienne opened her mouth, no doubt about to offer to pay for at least half of it. "This one is on me."

"Jaime!" she said.

"Brienne!" he replied, and waited until she smiled, a little reluctantly, at him.

Then he paid the bill. He even left a tip. Enough for everyone, despite the beetroot latte.

He slung his arm around Brienne and pulled her close as they walked along the street. She didn't object. In fact, after they'd gone a little distance, her arm snaked around his waist.

Jaime smiled, but didn't comment and just enjoyed the feel of her pressed up close against him.

The streets of Byron Bay were a mix of the sorts of businesses that you found everywhere, plus a few shops that were a little more specialised. There were pharmacies and newsagents and post offices, and restaurants and about a thousand small cafes, but also surf gear shops, fishing gear shops and shops aimed at the tourist market. 

They didn't stop in the rainbow shop; a single look was enough to tell Jaime that the interior was a tie dye nightmare. 

Brienne was curious about the shop that specialised in hemp clothing. "Why only hemp?" she asked.

"They're probably based in Nimbin," Jaime said.

"Are you planning to explain that?" Brienne asked, when he didn't elaborate.

"Nimbin's about an hour up the road from here, a little further inland. It used to be just a little town surrounded by dairy farms, but back in the '70s it was colonised by hippies. The counterculture died off in most other places, but the hippies never left Nimbin, and they bred. Actually, now I come to think of it, I'm fairly sure that's where someone with a name like 'Khaleesi' would come from," he said, glancing back down the street where Kafe Khaleesi's dragon-themed sign was still visible. 

"And?" Brienne prompted, though she was eyeing the shop a bit dubiously now.

"They've been campaigning to legalise the sale and use of cannabis for decades. They hold a MardiGrass,"—he emphasised the double 's'—"festival every year, and there's even a hemp embassy. They're big on hemp in all its forms."

"Clearly," Brienne said, giving the hemp clothing shop an even more dubious look.

They walked on, and only stopped again once they found themselves outside a chocolate shop. This being Byron, though, it called itself a chocolate boutique. This time, they went inside.

It was one of those shops that specialised in handmade chocolates, though there was also an area over to one side with tables and chairs where you could sit down to try the establishment's 'hot chocolate with a twist'. Jaime had absolutely no interest in trying any other 'creative' beverages this morning, after the beetroot latte he'd almost had, so he waited near the door while Brienne went over to the main counter to choose a selection of the handmade chocolates that the place appeared to be famous for.

It didn't take her long—Brienne wasn't the sort of person who spent much time dithering about anything. She knew what she wanted and she went after it. It was an aspect of her personality that Jaime had reason to appreciate. Soon, they were out on the street again. 

Brienne undid the pink ribbon that had been tied around the little bag of chocolates she'd bought, and offered them to Jaime. He took one at random, and popped it into his mouth. He felt the hot sting of it almost immediately. "Chilli?" he asked, surprised.

Brienne grinned, and chose a chocolate for herself, taking a little more time over it than Jaime had. "Hazelnut," she said, just before she bit into it with obvious relish.

Jaime watched her eat, the way she closed her eyes and savoured the chocolate, as if not wanting it to end, and he could tell that she had entered her own personal little slice of heaven. He almost felt as if he were intruding on a private moment. 

"So, do you still think it's better?" he asked, as lightly as he could. 

"Better?" she asked, looking slightly puzzled, but then her focus was probably still on the chocolate. "Better than what?"

"Better than sex," Jaime said. "You told me that yesterday, remember?"

Brienne looked at him incredulously, and then a grin spread across her face. "You can really ask that after… everything?" she asked. 

"I take it that's a 'no', then," Jaime said, feeling slightly sheepish.

Brienne was starting to look a bit pink about the edges again, but Jaime had a feeling that it was more from suppressed laughter than from embarrassment this time. "Of course it's a 'no'," she said, and leaned in to kiss him.

He kissed her back, tasting chocolate and warm, happy woman.

"If we're going to take a drive down the coast today, we should probably get going now," he suggested after he'd reluctantly drawn back from her, his voice sounding lower and raspier than usual. "The sooner we go, the sooner we can come back."

"That sounds like a good idea." She was still standing so close that he could bridge the gap between them and kiss her again. He almost did. Something stopped him. He couldn't have said what. Just some sixth sense.

He felt like he was being watched.

"Let's get back to the car," he said.

"Okay," Brienne said, taking his hand.

Jaime was glad she hadn't picked up on his change of mood this time.

It wasn't far to where they'd left the car, and soon Jaime was pulling out onto the road. It didn't take them long to leave Byron itself behind, but they hadn't gone far when they stopped again, thanks to a man in a hi vis vest holding a 'stop' sign in front of some road works.

The Aston Martin's engine idled. They were the only car waiting here. Surely this wouldn't take too long. Jaime tapped a finger on the steering wheel, impatient.

And then it happened. A squeal of brakes behind them, but no other warning. Just the hard _whump_ of one big, heavy object thudding into another, the crunch of metal, the jolting of the Aston Martin as the vehicle behind it came to a juddering stop and Jaime was thrown hard against his seatbelt. The _whump_ echoed in Jaime's heart. His beloved Aston Martin! But even more importantly…

"Brienne! Are you all right?"

She didn't answer for a few seconds, and in those seconds Jaime's heart seemed to come to a complete stop. But then she replied, a bit breathlessly, "Yes, I'm okay. Just had the breath knocked out of me for a second. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he hastened to assure her, but _whump_ went his heart again. He released his seatbelt and got out of the car.

And _flash_ went the camera. And _flash_ again.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued with (most likely) the next prompt: dreams


End file.
